Road Song

It’s home for me and a snug roof-tree When frosts hold the earth in thrall, But it’s hey, I say, for the broad highway, When the young year’s voices call. ’Tis then I would be rolling off, A-bowling off, a-strolling off⁠— An errant leaf bound whitherward The wind of fancy wills; ’Tis then I would be going off, A-whirling off, a-blowing off Along the road that leads away Beyond the purple hills. ’Twas hearth and home when the sky’s gray dome Hung low and the north wind skirled; Now it’s hey for the reel of the out-bound keel, And it’s ho for the great round world. ’Tis now I would be roving off A-shoving off, a-moving off To where the far horizon shows Mysterious and dim; It’s time that I was shipping off A-rising and a-dipping off To strange and unknown ports that lie Below the round world’s rim. Oh, some were made for peaceful shade Of their vine and their own fig tree, But marked of fate with the gipsy trait, It’s the open road for me. And so I would be pushing on, A-trekking on, a-mushing on, And leave the old well-trodden trails Long merry miles behind. ’Tis joyful I’d go swinging off, A-whooping and a-singing off, As goal-less as a vagrant crow A-winging down the wind.